An Apology
by Loyal Wholockian
Summary: Because sometimes, a simple 'I am sorry' is needed. /Inspired by briehope's fanfiction 'Ghosts In Paragraphs'


**Inspired by my friend Brianna's fanfiction 'Ghosts In Paragraphs'.**

**Didn't mean it as slash, though it prolly sounds it~**

**Anywho, enjoy.**

**- ZM xoxo**

* * *

i. I am sorry. Forgive me.

ii. I am Sherlock Holmes and you are John Watson, and you will always, _always_ make a better human being than I could ever hope to.

iii. I am dark, you see; a raven. I may fly, but the wings that chilly air currents caress are black, not white. I sweep across the sky, a shadow; a ghost that men cling to so that they may stay afloat in the world's tumultuous waves. For if this little raven can make it, then what man can't? I may not be trapped in those walls of water, but look! I have storms to navigate, their clouds like great ships on the horizon, grey and foreboding. Thunder shrieks as banshees, and lightning rides the rolling waves.  
I am lost. I am tumbling.  
You are slowly, slowly guiding me home.  
(Do not let my stumbling stop you. The wind will push me back, but please do not leave me.  
Please.  
I'd be lost without my Boswell; I'd be lost without my blogger.  
I'd be lost without my John.)

iii. Poles apart, we are white and black; different and the same; a tint and a shade. One could not exist without the other. Interdependent. For without black, how can there be white? And without white, how can there be black? If one of them is missing, how can there be those delicate in-betweens? Charcoal, ash, slate?  
White and black. Black and white. Both are utterly necessary. Both must work together.  
(Poles apart, they are really quite similar.)

iv. Shadow-child; I have always been older than my years.

v. You cannot always help what you become. Most of the time. But not always. Perturbed minds give way to shadows; lightning will strike, and thunder will roll, but shadow-children will never be alone.  
I am shadowed, the palette of my mind daubed with grey and with white, but mostly with black.  
(Don't be frightened. Please.  
It's only me.)

vi. I will always love you. Even if I cannot show it. Even if I cannot say it.  
(I am Sherlock Holmes; I cannot do sentiment.)  
I will always love you.  
Always.  
(Always means forever.)

vii. My John. You deserve better.  
(I don't want 'better'. I want you.)  
(You say that now.)  
(I say that always. Always means forever.)

viii. I don't know how to make things better; you're the doctor, I'm the detective. You're the heart, I'm the head.  
I don't know what to do.

ix. Life is a complicated thing. I can't decide whether it's more or less complicated than I am. At any rate, sometimes even I can't figure it out.  
Or, perhaps I make too much of it. Perhaps it is simple.

x. Things are never simple.

xi. I love you.  
(It really is that simple.)

xii. I am sorry I cannot be more. I am sorry I cannot be white. I am sorry I cannot be pure. I am sorry I cannot be innocent. I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.  
I am sorry I care not for men. I am sorry I am so tainted. I am sorry I cannot be simple. I am sorry I am scared to change. I am sorry I lack faith. I am sorry that I need to see. I am sorry that I hurt. I am sorry that I hurt others. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.  
(I am sorry.  
I am trying my hardest.  
Sometimes you ask too much of me.  
My bones are weak, my heart is frail, my mind is treacherous. Disturbed and warped, it tells me that the only way is downwards. It tells me that I must build myself up, that I must tear myself down, to become strong. It tells me that the more I hurt, the less I can be hurt.  
I am fighting it, but it is not easy.)

xiii. (My demons tell me I am not worth it.)

xiv. Do not listen to all I say.  
(Sometimes it is my ghosts talking, and they are not to be trusted. Wicked, wicked, wicked, they cause me to stumble and turn out the lights.  
Block your ears. These are the sirens of my mind, and their songs have a way of worming into the soul.)

xv. Please don't leave.

xvi. "I am not special," you say. "I thought I was. But I'm not."  
My heart is breaking. My John. You have no idea how wrong you are; I think, fleetingly, that your demons must be blinding you. There is no other excuse.  
"You're wrong."  
"I'm right."  
(My heart shatters. A collection of shards and shrapnel, it rattles against the walls of its cage, scratching and scraping. Guilt makes my stomach twist in its hollow. My John. Is this what I have done to you?)  
"No. No, you're not. You are special. You have always been special. You will always be special. You cannot see it and it is killing me. I love you. And you don't believe me. You don't trust me. And I don't blame you, but it hurts me.

xvii. Let me be with my indifference.  
(I am happy here.)

xviii. You are better than me. You allow yourself to feel. You open yourself up. You take down your walls.  
(I keep telling you that you will pay for it one day; you ignore me.)  
Whereas I for my part keep myself locked away.  
(Self-preservation, my veins whisper. But I forgot long ago how to care.  
Of course, there's always an exception to the rule.)


End file.
